There wuz dearth of rest and intment, or food, or healin’ roots;
But his pardner sot beside him—”
Here he gin me a witherin’ look; I spoze I wuz a-smilin’ some. He can’t write poetry, that man can’t, and mebby I showed my knowledge of the fact in my mean.
“His pardner sot beside him, a-jeerin’ at his woe,
And unto her he faintly sed, in axents wan and low,
‘I’ve a message and a groan or two, to send most any time,
To distant friends in Jonesville, fair Jonesville on the Lyme.’”
Yes, I wuz sorry enough I mentioned that poem, for before night that man had a hull string of verses writ off, and he recited ’em to me anon, or oftener. They went on a-recountin’ all the peace and beauty of Jonesville, and the delights of stayin’ there and takin’ solid comfort and happiness, and the tribulations two old folks went through away from that blissful spot, with their bodies moved round from place to place on a tower, and the verses most all on ’em ended with these lines, some like the melancholy accompaniment of a trombone—
“And one old fool wuz born in Jonesville,
Fair Jonesville on the Lyme.”